


every time I say "I," it refers to you.

by henryclerval



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, warm up fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:10:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henryclerval/pseuds/henryclerval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to fix that presence, make it real in his mind, comb his fingertips across Bucky’s exposed spine, spread and feel the knots in the muscle that match his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	every time I say "I," it refers to you.

The night is dark and Steve is tired, unfathomably exhausted. He feels the ache in every ounce of muscle stretched across his body, tugging and groaning and whimpering on his bones as he refuses to shift, refuses them relief. He is pulled taught and sensitive—he is aware of each breath that filters through his nose, counts each time he blinks because he cannot afford to look away for longer than a second. He’s afraid of what may happen if he does. 

But Bucky is there. Bucky is there, consistently, within arm’s reach. 

Bucky is there and tangible and this isn’t a dream. This isn’t a repeat of countless nights where Steve opens his eyes—thinks he’s opening his eyes, bleary and color smeared into this and that but Bucky remains sharp, is the distortion by his side. This isn’t the nightmare that has taken hold of Steve firmly, forcing him to watch his hand reach out to smooth over the thick fabric of Bucky’s blue coat, to turn him over and find him bruised and bleeding and eyes wide and wet. 

Somehow it’s still easier than when he turns Bucky over and he’s gone, startling Steve out of the thin sleep he had managed. 

But Bucky is real, solid, warm and part of him glinting in the safety lights that manage to peek in at them through blinds; the amount of times Steve has woken to nothing keeps him on his toes and for once, he’s so relieved to be proven wrong. His fatigue keeps his eyes drooping, keeps him from doing much else besides rolling his eyes back upward to force them open again, because Bucky is real. 

Bucky is real and here, with him, in this marshmallow bed that neither of them can ease into comfortably. Steve can see the way that he breathes, can see the rise and fall of his—his entire body, Bucky even breathes with such determination that he almost doesn’t catch the wheeze, the little sputter that interrupts the long pauses between exhale and inhale. Out and in. In and out. Bucky is there and he’s breathing and living and it’s enough to make Steve want to reach out and touch. 

He wants to fix that presence, make it real in his mind, comb his fingertips across Bucky’s exposed spine, spread and feel the knots in the muscle that match his own. He wants to feel the warmth of Bucky’s skin and the roughness of his callouses, feel the dots of scars as he thinks about the file that tells their story. 

But Steve’s hand falls short, grazes the sheets as he watches on instead. His shyness is not new, nor is Bucky in his bed, but each night they lie like this he feels impossibly inexperienced—reverting back to two hundred pounds and a foot and a lifetime ago, when he is scared of the consequences despite having done this dance before. 

Bucky shudders out a breath, heaves it up like it needed to be vomited out, forcibly tossed onto the pillow that Steve had picked out especially for him, and Steve just watches—it’s all he can do, watch Bucky try to settle back down into the bed, try to relax enough to fall asleep, try to pass up the wind in his spine as a slow unraveling. 

And what could Steve do—he’s never been good at watching, at standing still, and the full-body tremor that rustles the comforter is the last straw. He smothers the panic that it might be a dream, that when he closes the space between them he’ll wake to the uncomfortable strain in his neck from sleeping on the couch, and snakes over. Holds his breath when Bucky flinches, tenses, becomes stock-still until Steve gets his chest flush against him, presses his face into Bucky’s hair. 

There are words on his lips, desperate to be breathe out into Bucky’s scalp, but it’s so quiet and Steve’s heart is beating so fast, and Bucky is just starting to melt into his touch, become malleable as Steve strokes up and down his chest, trying to convince himself that it’s reality. Bucky is warm and marred against him, but he’s there—he’s there and he reaches to lace his fingers in with Steve’s.


End file.
